“The guest room is upstairs, second door on the right,” Sloan said, gesturing toward the staircase. “You can use the half bathroom by the laundry room. Deacon’s at the office. He’ll be home around six.”
I dragged my suitcases up the stairs, my damaged lungs burning, my legs trembling. I had to stop twice to catch my breath.
Before I could finish unpacking, Sloan appeared in the doorway with her arms crossed, leaning against the frame.
“We should go over some house rules,” she said, not as a suggestion but as an announcement.
“Of course,” I replied, trying to sound agreeable.
She listed them like she’d rehearsed. “The master bathroom is ours—that’s off limits. Use the half bath downstairs by the laundry room. Don’t come down before nine on weekends—we value our privacy in the mornings. Don’t touch the thermostat. And we’ll need four hundred dollars a month for household expenses.”
